a new life, just a better place to die
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Settling down is both harder and easier the second time. Destiel, with a generous helping of Sam. [Revised 1/16/13]


**Notes: Contains angst, fluff, Destiel, and Sam in fairly equal and sometimes indistinguishable portions. Title comes from One Foot, which is a good song, by fun., which is a good band. Tell me what you think!**

**Notes, Part II: Revised 1/16/13, because I churned this out pretty quickly the first time and some sections were OOC/extraneous. Hopefully it's a bit tighter now – I think it is.**

**Warnings: set after season seven, so spoilers. Written before season eight. Some swearing and abuse of parentheses. Implications of sex, but nothing on-page other than (clothed) spooning and wing-cuddles. **

It's Dean who suggests it.

Well. It isn't so much a suggestion as it is a declaration. He's barely out of Purgatory for five minutes when he looks at Sam, at damp eyes and shaking hands and evidence of stress and neglect which even the giddy relief they're both feeling can't hide, and suddenly he _knows_.

"We have got to stop doing this."

Sam laughs, very breathless and a little hysterical, and Dean leaves it at that for the moment. They all need time to recover from the shock. Cas' eyes are going kind of hazy, Sam looks like he's about to fall over, and Dean could _murder_ a burger.

Big Important Talks can wait.

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It's not until the next day, eating his fourth burger in the past twenty-four hours (and smirking at Sam's half-hearted attempts to look exasperated), that he brings it up again.

"We should get a house," he says between bites.

Sam's eyebrows twitch upwards.

"What?" he says, but he seems more amused than anything, like he's expecting a punch line.

"We should get a house," Dean repeats. "Y'know. Walls, stairs, carpets. Hell, throw in a lawn and a patio. Whole nine yards. Football," he adds quickly when Cas opens his mouth. "It has to do with football."

"Actually, no one knows the origins of that phrase," Sam corrects automatically, and keeps going before Dean can give him crap for being a pedantic geek. "When you say 'we' should get a house, you mean . . . ?"

"The three of us," he says as though it should be obvious, which it should. Duh. Who else would he get a house with? (He pushes back thoughts of a woman's embrace and a boy's smile and what never could have been.) "You, me, and Cas."

"Dean . . ." Sam is frowning, a mixture of thought and irritation and reproach. It's his 'I'm figuring out what you don't want me to figure out' look.

"Hey, it could work," says Dean, cutting him off. "I could work in a garage, like when you were in high school, remember? And you could get a job in . . . I dunno, a library. Or wherever it is geeks like you work. And Cas could . . ." He pauses, trying to think of an occupation for Cas which would not inevitably lead to disaster.

"I thought that two sources of income were generally sufficient for a single household," Cas offers.

"Yeah, but –" Dean stops as it occurs to him that Cas might actually be incapable of boredom. Maybe it comes with being millions of years old. Maybe it's just Cas. (The thought ignites that warm, not unpleasant almost-ache in Dean's chest which he isn't ready to examine quite yet.) "Yeah, Cas can stay home."

"Dean," Sam repeats, and he's not frowning anymore. Now he's wearing his 'I've figured it out and I'm not mad' look, which would be a good thing except that it's all tangled up with his 'I'm not worth it' look, which is just _bullshit_, because Sammy is worth the whole damn universe if Dean says he is. "You don't have to –" His eyes flicker downwards, to where he can't possibly see Dean's hand on Cas' knee. His face pinches for an instant, then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and it smoothes into a look of pleasant calm.

Dean feels something cold trickle into his stomach. He knows that look, even though it took him way, _way_ too long to see through it.

That's Sam's 'really, I'm fine' look, and he wore it for months while Lucifer was going to town in his brain.

"Don't worry about me. You and Cas, you should do whatever you want. It's okay."

The worst part is, he really means it. Sam really thinks that he's been . . . demoted, somehow, that Dean is just including him as an afterthought, an obligation. He thinks he's not important. And he's _okay_ with that.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" Dean growls. Sam blinks at him in surprise, and even Cas gives a little twitch which isn't quite a jump. "This isn't about me and Cas. This is about _all_ of us. We're family, dumbass."

He takes a moment to appreciate Sam's gob smacked expression, then snorts in exasperation and goes back to his fries, grumbling through mouthfuls of greasy potato about idiot little brothers and their stupid martyr complexes.

.

.

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"You're really serious about this," Sam says the next morning, when he peers over Dean's shoulder and sees that he's examining real estate listings rather than obituaries.

"Yep," Dean replies. "I was thinking Michigan. Land's pretty cheap up there. There's plenty of space, too. Lakes and woods and stuff." And if they went far enough north, it wouldn't get too hot, even in the summer. Neither he nor Sam does well with heat, after everything.

"You're talking about retirement, Dean," says Sam, and there's concern in his voice. Dean can feel him pulling a chair up to the other side of the wobbly plastic table, but doesn't look up. He's only been back for two days and is definitely not ready to deal with Sam's puppy-dog eyes. "You've been saying stuff about leaving the life for years. Why now?"

Dean thinks of all the reasons he's been turning over in his head ever since that stony certainty settled in his stomach. All their friends are dead. There are way too many people who know way too much about the mistakes which Cas has only just come to terms with and will never, ever forgive himself for. It's taking more and more alcohol just to stop thinking. Sam has already been seven different types of crazy (Dean counted), and Dean can never be sure what sort of jagged edges the next crack in his mind will create. He's _tired_.

He sits back with a sigh, running a hand over his face.

"Hunting's going to kill us, Sammy. Hell, it already has, more than once. Doesn't matter what we do. Keep working jobs, go to Michigan, dig out Bobby's panic room and hide there for the rest of our lives – Hunting's still gonna kill us. I just wanna be able to recognize us when it does."

Finally, he meets Sam's eyes. Worry and sympathy and understanding are layered over a weariness which almost matches Dean's own, and he knows that he has him even before he nods.

"Okay. We'll go to Michigan."

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It takes all Sam's computer skills and sweetness, all Dean's not-exactly-legal strategies and charm, and a little bit of Cas' mojo, but they manage it. Sam deploys the puppy-dog eyes, Dean flirts expertly, Cas liberates some documents from behind layers of locked doors, and soon they are the proud fake-owners of a house just outside of Lawrence, Michigan.

The irony is not lost on either of them.

Cas decides to point it out anyway. Sam cringes in second-hand embarrassment, but Dean finds it really difficult to be annoyed when Cas is so ridiculously pleased with himself for using the word 'ironic' correctly. (It's been way too long since Cas was pleased with himself.)

Lawrence isn't exactly the wooded wilderness Dean has been imagining, but he supposes that devastatingly handsome criminals can't be choosers. Anyway, it's probably better. Neighbors to talk to, restaurants and bars nearby, supplies and hospitals within reasonable distance if something goes wrong.

_Neighbors to ask inconvenient questions, places for people to talk about things they shouldn't, lots of civilians in the way if something goes __**really**__ wrong . . ._ Dean shakes off the thought (and tries not to wonder when his internal Hunter voice stopped sounding like Dad and started sounding like Sam).

Sam can act like he's humoring him all he wants. They're doing this, and it's going to work.

Dean will _make_ it work.

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They don't tell anyone where they're going. (Not that there's anyone left who would care.) Dean wants to ditch the phones, make a clean break of it, but Sam reminds him in that extremely reasonable, extremely _annoying_ tone that with Bobby gone, there are some things which only they know and books which only they have access to. They have a responsibility, he says.

Dean wants to argue. He wants to throw the phone against the wall. He wants to tell Sam to fuck responsibility, hell, fuck the whole damn world.

He doesn't. A little because he doesn't want a fight, a lot because he'd probably lose, but mostly because he's been on the other end of that line too many times. He's dialed number after number with shaking fingers, hoping and praying and begging for anyone, anything at all that might help, sinking further into despair with every dead line.

They keep the phones.

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They have a house.

It's a little surreal. They stock the cabinets with salt and holy water and stash the weapons in strategic places. Dean carves protective symbols into the windowsills, taking more care than usual with the aesthetics. Sam arranges books alphabetically on the shelves. When it's all finished, they stare at each other for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

"Dibs on the biggest room!" Dean says abruptly, and dashes up the stairs.

Sam follows him more slowly, and eventually lays claim to the room at the end of the hall. It's the farthest from Dean's, which is . . . odd. But hey, it's not like they've ever had a place of their own before. If the kid wants a bit of space, Dean's not going to begrudge him. Maybe he's gotten used to being on his own. Again.

The thought makes Dean feel a little sick as he glances out the window of his new bedroom. There's a nice view of the garden, where Cas is wandering amongst the overgrown flowerbeds.

Dean smiles, fondness and something else drowning out every other emotion, for the time being.

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It's a nice town.

Population of just under a thousand, mostly families, some couples, a handful of single people. They cause a bit of a ripple when they move in and a bigger one on their first trip to town when Cas manages to imply that they're some sort of gay polygamous marriage. Sam turns bright red, stuttering as he scrambles to explain to the scandalized cashier. Dean probably would have been exasperated if he weren't laughing so hard. Outside, he has to explain to Cas, who still doesn't understand what he said.

"She thought we were _together_, Cas. Like, married together."

"Oh," says Cas. "That is . . . laughable."

There's something weird in his tone, like a question.

"Well, yeah. Sam's my _brother_. And I hate to break it to you, dude, but I really don't think he's interested in you that way."

"Definitely not," Sam agrees.

"Oh," says Cas again, this time with something resembling relief. "Yes, of course. Ha."

Dean eyes him for a moment, but it doesn't seem like anything's wrong. In fact, he looks . . . cheerful. He glances at Sam to see if he knows what the hell is going on, but Sam just gives him his 'stop being an idiot' look, which is not helpful. Ever.

It's not until a few minutes later, when Cas' hand slips tentatively into his, that he realizes.

Oh.

_Oh._

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Cas likes to watch Dean sleep.

It should be really, really creepy, but it's not. Dean needs to sleep. Cas doesn't. Cas likes to look at Dean, and hey, he's not going to argue with that. The arrangement is only logical. And it's actually kind of . . . nice. Dean is used to having another person in the room. The mere presence of a familiar heartbeat keeps the worst of the nightmares at bay, and now that he and Sam are in separate rooms . . .

The full implications of that don't hit him until nearly a week after they arrive.

He rolls over in the middle of the night, half asleep, still feeling the warmth of the whiskey he downed earlier. He can hear Cas' breathing beside him, and maybe he's still dreaming but he imagines that he can feel enormous wings above him, around him, sheltering him. He's going to start his new job in the morning, but right now he's warm and safe and watched over, and he thinks that he finally understands how little Sammy would fall asleep so quickly in his arms no matter where they were or what nightmare he had just woken from.

Sammy.

Nightmares.

_Shit._

Dean jerks upright, pleasant haze evaporating in an instant. He definitely isn't imagining the rustle of feathers when Cas rears back in alarm, but that's a revelation for another time. He needs to get to Sam, _now._

Ignoring Cas' startled, concerned inquiries, he bolts out the door, hurtling down the hallway towards Sam's room which is _too damn far_, why the _hell_ did he let him choose that room –

He bursts through the door with a bang and finds . . . Sam. Awake, book in hand, wearing his 'Dean, what the hell?' look.

"Dean, what the hell?"

"You've been having nightmares," Dean states without preamble.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, setting his book to the side and getting to his feet as worry chases the annoyance from his face.

"You've been having nightmares," Dean repeats, ignoring the question, because it's a stupid one, anyway. Of course _he's_ okay. He's just dandy. He's got a new house, a new job, nothing trying to kill him (at the moment), whatever confusing but undeniably nice thing is happening with Cas and, apparently, Sam bending over backwards to make sure that nothing disrupts the pretty little life he's constructing for himself.

"I always have nightmares," says Sam, almost absently, scanning Dean for any sign of illness or injury. He wrinkles his nose. "You're drunk. Look, you should sit down." He reaches out to steer Dean to the bed, but Dean catches his wrist and refuses to let go.

"You chose this room so that I wouldn't be able to hear you."

Because Sam doesn't scream in his sleep. (It would almost be better if he did.) He whimpers and twitches and chokes on sobs and desperate pleas, but it's quiet. Quiet enough that Dean wouldn't be able to hear him through the three walls that have been between them for the past six nights.

"Well . . . yeah," says Sam slowly. "I figured you knew that."

Dean should have. He should have known the instant Sam's eyes flickered between two doors and settled on the far one. He should have at least known when he turned up way too early the next morning with a cup of coffee and circles under his eyes, but Sam always gets up early, always looks tired, has for days and years and lifetimes, and Dean's been so damn distracted with the house and the job and Cas . . . .

He swears viciously.

"Dean, it's _okay_," Sam says, and he's wearing that calm look again, and Dean wants to smack it off his face.

"No it's not," he growls, because it's not. It's not okay, he's not sure it ever has been okay, and now they might have a chance to make it okay but they can't do that unless Sam cuts all his Zen bullshit and admits that it's _not._

Sam sighs.

"Dean, I get that you want to help, but you need your sleep and I'm going to have nightmares whether you can hear me or not."

It's true. Dean knows that it's true. Despite Cas taking away the worst of it, Sam's nightmares have been nearly constant ever since the Wall fell – before that, actually; since he got his soul back. He only sleeps when he can't do anything else, so a lot of the time Dean can't even wake him up, and when he can it just leaves him shaking and gasping and exhausted. Dean's presence barely even seems to register anymore, except on the really bad nights when he wraps his too-big little brother in his arms as if they were kids again.

He'd do that every night if he had to, but Sam would never tolerate it. Sensing Cas still hovering awkwardly behind him, Dean is a little relieved at that, and then immediately feels guilty.

Sam smiles at him, small and sad. It's his 'there's nothing you can do' look, and it always makes Dean want to shoot something (or maybe himself).

"How exactly do you think you could help?" he asks gently.

It's a good question.

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Sam needs a job. It's not exactly a miracle fix, but it'll at least cut into his brooding time and hopefully let him sleep a bit more easily.

(Dean had actually half-seriously considered getting Sam one of those things people use to help children sleep, the ones that play nature sounds or whatever. He decided that it would do more harm than good, especially to his nose when Sam threw it at his face, which is probably what would have happened.)

There aren't exactly a huge number of openings in Lawrence, Michigan, and even fewer that Sam would be even remotely pleased with, but Dean has spent a long time carving out places for them where there aren't any. For once, luck seems to be on his side, and he walks past the local bookshop just in time to see the owner, Audrey Pinker, tumble off a ladder as she strains to reach the top shelf.

He jogs inside and helps her to her feet. She's very short and kind of bookish and reserved for his tastes, her dark hair pulled back in a bun and her clothes conservative, but she's not bad-looking and only a couple years older than Sam. It occurs to him that getting out more could be good for Sam in more ways than one.

"Seems like you could use some help around here," he says, with his most charming smile.

She glares at him. It kind of looks like Sam's bitchface, and his smile widens.

"Are you asking for your brother or your boyfriend?"

That brings him up short.

". . . what?" he asks intelligently. Audrey sighs impatiently.

"Small town. News travels fast. You're Dean, with the brother and the boyfriend. You already have a job at Mike's garage, so if you're asking about a job _here,_ it's either for your brother or your boyfriend."

"No, Cas isn't –" He stops. He's not sure what Cas is. "It's complicated."

Her face softens slightly into a wry smile.

"Isn't it always? So, question's still the same. Who's the job for?"

"My brother," he states, kicking his mind back into gear. "Sam. He, uh, needs a job. And he, uh, likes books." He sounds like an idiot. She watches him with amusement while he scrambles to find a way to describe Sam which doesn't involve words like 'geek' and 'college-boy' and 'gigantic pain in the ass.' "He's . . . smart. Really smart. Went to Stanford."

Her eyebrows rise at that, impressed. He continues, more confidently.

"He knows old languages. Latin, and stuff." Enochian, now, but Dean doesn't want to think about that so he doesn't. "He, uh, used to work with old manuscripts a lot."

"This is a bookstore, not a museum," she says, but it's just a correction, not a contradiction. She chews on her lip and Dean lets her think, knowing better than to oversell. "I wouldn't be able to pay much," she says at last, eying him narrowly.

"Not a problem," says Dean smoothly. "It's more to get him out of the house than anything. He's organizing all of _our_ books; it's driving me crazy." Another smile to sell the half-truth. (His own sanity isn't what he's worried about.)

"Sam's the tall one?" Audrey asks, and his smile widens into a grin.

"That's him."

"Alright," she says, and he must look a little too proud of himself, because she holds up a warning finger. "Trial run. Tell him to be here at eight tomorrow morning. We'll give it a few days, and then _maybe_ we'll see about regular employment."

"Sounds great," he says pleasantly, and they shake on it.

On the way back to the house ('home' still feels strange in his mind and on his tongue), he's preoccupied. Oh, not about the job. Sam's polite and hard-working and too damn sweet for his own good, even now. It'll work out.

No, he's thinking about Cas. Because he's not his boyfriend. Not _really_. They're definitely more than just friends, and Dean can't deny the comfort that comes from his presence, or the fact that, somewhat to his own surprise, he's actually _forgiven_ him for _hurting Sam_, which is a privilege which he'd only ever extended to Dad before now, and even then only barely. And yeah, Cas is in his room every night, which sort of goes beyond friendship, but they haven't actually _done_ anything. Dean's not sure Cas is even capable of _doing_ anything.

Not that Dean would object.

Huh.

Maybe he should look into that.

.

.

.

It takes Sam a couple weeks to catch on.

Not about Dean and Cas. Dean is pretty sure he's known about that for longer than _they_ have, and anyway, it was made pretty obvious when Sam walked in on some decidedly more-than-friendly activities (which it turns out Cas _is_ capable of, if endearingly inexperienced), made a strangled sound, and backed out again.

He's a bit slower on the uptake when it comes to the bookstore lady. Dean knows that the jig is up when he returns to the house, satisfyingly tired after a productive day at the garage, and finds Sam waiting with his 'I know what you're doing and I'm not amused' look.

"Hiya, Sammy," he says, intentionally irritating. Sam scowls.

"This isn't a Lifetime movie, Dean."

"Yeah, I kind of gathered that much from the occult symbols carved into the doorframe and fact that, as awesome a Superman as I would be, my last name is not Cain," says Dean, snagging a beer from the fridge and resigning himself to a Sam Winchester signature bitchfit.

"I'm not going to fall in love just because it would make a cute story," says Sam.

"'Course not," Dean agrees. "You're going to fall in love because she's hot and available and made for you."

Sam lets out a breath through his nose in a frustrated huff, and yep, there's the bitchface, right on schedule, though it might be partially caused by the fact that Dean just swung his still-booted feet onto the table.

"I like the job. Audrey is my boss. That's _all._"

"Is this about your emo 'I'm cursed so I can never get laid' thing?" Dean questions. "Because I thought we decided last night that we were over that."

"No, _you_ decided that since you and Cas are both cursed, it cancels out and you two are actually blessed. All _I _decided was that you shouldn't be allowed to do fake relationship math when you're drunk."

Dean frowns, trying to remember. It's all a little hazy after his sixth shot. Mostly there's a lot of Cas. And kissing. And maybe giving the finger to some intolerant assholes while Sam tried to shove him out the door.

Sam sighs in irritated exasperation.

"Audrey and I are what we are. Let it be, okay? And stop making Cas spy on us. It makes him uncomfortable."

"Hey, it's not spying if you can see him." That's edging too close to something he doesn't want to touch, so he continues quickly. "Anyway, I'm not _making_ him do anything. I just asked."

"Dean, he's still in groveling mode. He'll do anything you ask him to. Believe me; I know a thing or two about it."

Dean flinches, remembering a near solid year of broken trust and anger and his brother trailing after him with his tail between his legs like a beaten dog. Remembering how it ended. Sam must recognize his expression, because he sighs again, the bitchface giving way to something softer.

"Look, just . . . be careful."

"I will," says Dean, and he means it. He's being careful, just as careful as he's ever been on any Hunt, any world-saving mission, because this is _important_, not just Cas but also Sam and the house and the job and he _needs_ this, they all do. But there's too much and he knows he has to get Sam to let down this stupid front of his, but he doesn't know how and to be perfectly honest (which he tries not to be) he doesn't really want to.

Dean's being careful. He's _trying_.

He just hopes that this time, it's enough.

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"Dean."

Cas' voice is firm, insistent, but not urgent. The body spooned against Dean's is still relaxed, if not melted into his like it was moments ago. He gives a sleepy hum in response without opening his eyes.

"Your brother needs you."

Dean is wide awake in an instant. Cas departs in a flutter of wings – giving them privacy, some small part of his mind registers distantly, but the rest of it is consumed by the single thought which slips from his lips.

"Sammy."

Sam is in the doorway, looking more lost and uncertain than Dean has seen him since they got back. In the darkness, his eyes shine with tears.

"Sammy?" Dean repeats, getting to his feet and taking a step forward. Sam only shakes his head helplessly, but at least he's responding. Dean closes the distance between them, grasps his arm, feels him trembling. "Sam, tell me what's wrong."

Sam stares at him for a long moment, and then starts to sob.

Dean catches him as his knees buckle, nearly going down himself under the sudden weight. Apparently he didn't have to figure it out at all, because the front came down all on its own. Sam is _weeping_, not just tears but low, keening wails of grief and pain and Dean hasn't heard a sound like that from him in . . . years. Not since before Hell, before _either_ of their Hells; not since before Dad, even. Not since Jessica.

Dean would wonder how Sam, teary, emotive, let-it-out Sam became such a silent griever, but he knows what it is to hurt so badly that you can't even scream.

They sink to the ground, Sam clutching desperately at Dean's shirt, Dean murmuring nonsense into his brother's hair. He doesn't know what nightmare or memory or passing thought broke the dam (because that's what this is, something breaking, painful and destructive but maybe, just maybe, necessary). Sam definitely isn't saying.

Dean holds his little brother as he shatters, and it hurts. Oh, god, it hurts. But there's something cathartic about it – for both of them, Dean hopes – like flushing a wound or puking up a bad burger. Ridding the body of poison.

Sam's cries subside into quiet sobbing, which fade to silent tears, and finally, just as the sky begins to lighten, he pulls away.

"Sorry," he mutters, the first word he's said all night. "I just –"

"I know," says Dean. "You've got nothing to apologize for. Except maybe the shirt," he adds, glancing down at the undershirt which is now soaked with tears and snot.

Sam huffs a laugh, his lips curling into a smile. There's something raw in his eyes (something raw in Dean's chest), but it's a good kind of raw. Like forgotten muscles aching after unfamiliar movement, or new skin when the bandage comes off.

Dean wonders if this is what healing feels like.

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They take it one day at a time.

Cas doesn't sleep, but he curls his body around Dean's and stays all night long. Sometimes he murmurs Enochian into his skin, poetry and promises and apologies. Dean doesn't know Enochian, but he understands.

During the day, Cas sits in the garden and talks with the bees and then Sam (probably just to be annoying) gets him a book on how to make little decorative insects out of wire and beads and the stupid things start showing up _all over the place_. Dean rolls his eyes but secretly sort of likes them (only because Cas made them, and he can't decide whether that makes more or less of a girl). Cas is often troubled and guilty but he's usually coherent and always grateful and sometimes there's something in his face which looks almost like peace.

Sam sleeps rarely and fitfully, but that's nothing new. Sometimes he stays up late into the night doing research for other Hunters, scouring the web for lore and looking up obscure exorcisms and translating dead languages. Dean doesn't like it, but he understands.

During the day, Sam works in the bookstore and completely fails to make a move on his boss and does the shopping because Dean works longer hours and sending Cas to do it would be cruel to both him and everyone else in the store. Dean teases him about the ridiculously domestic things he buys, cooking utensils and area rugs and a vacuum, but is secretly relieved to see him accepting the place as theirs (and if his heart gives a little jump when he realizes that they've started calling it 'home,' it's probably just all the bacon cheeseburgers catching up with him). Sam is . . . not okay, but he doesn't try to pretend that he is all the time, and sometimes his smile is genuine.

Dean sleeps under an angel's wings. Sometimes he jerks awake with his heart racing and a scream lodged in this throat, familiar hands dragging him from Perdition and back to the surface once more. Cas doesn't speak, but his eyes say that he understands.

During the day, Dean works on cars and watches out for his brother and his boyfriend and tries very hard not to think about the monsters they've fought and the people they've lost and the irreparable damage it's done to all of them. Sam frowns at his drinking but doesn't protest that vocally, and Dean suspects that he's secretly just glad that Dean at least has a job with hours which force him to be moderate on weeknights (and a boyfriend with serious, concerned eyes which keep him from getting totally smashed even on weekends). Dean is still tired, but he has the space to breathe, and that's something.

It's not happiness, exactly. It's not even hope, really, because Dean is still certain that Hunting's going to kill them, one way or another. Some of the Leviathans which survived Sam's (very impressive and somewhat terrifying) effort to wipe them from the planet will track them down, or they'll hear word of some new apocalypse which, because _something_ obviously hates them, only they can prevent, or they'll rush in to save their neighbor from a vengeful spirit and they'll be so rusty or so unlucky that it takes one of them down (and the other two wouldn't last long after that).

It's not happiness. It's not hope. Maybe it's love – not some pure and shining fairy tale ideal, but the real thing, dark and gritty and just a little bit twisted. Maybe they're ghosts already, just waiting for someone to lay them to rest.

Maybe Dean's okay with that.


End file.
